trillion wishesa paper deck of things to say
Random Favorites JUN 2026 21 Calendar
Fresh today · Sunday, 21 June

New Wishes

A handful of wishes pulled from the cabinet this morning. Pick one up — copy, save it to your pinboard, or send it on.

Drawn at dawn
Wishes in the library
92,976

My hands keep finding the empty side of the bed like they're checking for a pulse.

I miss your specific brand of trouble — the kind that ends with us laughing in bad lighting.

When you come home, I plan to be unbearably clingy for at least the first hour.

Even my grocery list is shorter without you — fewer snacks, less joy in the cart.

I caught myself ordering for two at the cafe today. The barista was kind about it.

Whatever you're doing right now, know that I'm somewhere being quietly ridiculous about you.

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What are we writing today?

Cabinets sorted by occasion. Open one — pages are arranged by warmth, not algorithm.

More from today

I miss the look you give me when I say something I think is profound and obviously isn't.

There's a mug here that won't behave for anyone except you. It's waiting. I am too.

The streetlight outside our place flickers in your rhythm now. Or maybe I've gone strange.

I'm collecting small good things to hand to you when you arrive — a little dragon's hoard.

Missing you is a quiet job. I do it well, but I'd rather be unemployed.

Hurry back — the world is fine, but it's noticeably less itself without you in it.

I miss you the way a room misses light — quietly, completely, without knowing the word for it.

Half my sentences trail off lately. They were on their way to you and lost the thread.

There's a chair you used to sit in. It still leans slightly toward where you were.

Missing you has become a habit I forget to break, like checking the sky for rain.

I keep saving stories for you, stacking them like books I'll one day hand over.

Some evenings the silence sounds exactly like your voice deciding what to say next.

I walked past our old corner today and the air there still remembered us.

You're the page I keep dog-earing in my head — I return to it without meaning to.

I miss the version of me that existed only when you were close enough to laugh with.

The kettle whistles and for a second I'm sure you'll wander in asking for two sugars.

I made the soup we used to argue about. It came out exactly your way this time.

Distance is a strange tutor — teaches you which parts of someone you carry everywhere.

My phone keeps suggesting your name. I'm not ready to correct it.